


undead

by midwinter_stars



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Blood and Gore, Crybaby Yamaguchi, Gangs, M/M, Matsukawa is a Little SHIT, Mild Gore, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Relationship w/ Kunimi and Daishou? Yes, Shirabu Cusses a Lot, Suga Needs to CHILL, Wakatoshi is Surprisingly... Durable, Yamaguchi Needs a Hug, Yes Onagawa is an Actual Haikyuu Character, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-02-23 09:46:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13187502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midwinter_stars/pseuds/midwinter_stars
Summary: For what's life in the zombie apocalypse without a little gang dispute?No one knows if they'll come out alive. Bombarded on one side by the undead, and attacked on the other by powerful godfathers and gang leaders, there's no escape; nothing ensures your survival. Everyone knows that.Each person has their own story, though; their own origin, and their own hardships. Who's to know?Everyone lives on their own terms, but to all, there's one unspoken, undeniable rule:Keep moving. Keep going. Don’t get bitten. Don’t get caught.





	1. kei's unfortunate revelation

**Author's Note:**

> Just the inner, angsty me trying to come out. I thought: it's either I bring all my favorites together with fun in the sun, or a complete and utterly horrible apocalypse. 
> 
> We might just see both of them, sometime, too.

_Why has it come to this?_

That’s the first thing he asks himself, holed up in the upturned rubble of a collapsed, ancient barn.

Tsukishima Kei curses the empty pistol at his side; he’s sans ammo, with none to fend off whatever unholy beings have accumulated behind the weak planks of wood shielding him from the outside world.

_I’m going to die here._

He stabs forward with his makeshift spear- a measly, rusted six-inch knife tied to an old mop handle with rope and some super glue- at the shadowy, groaning figures outside the upturned walls.

There’s an angry moan; a skeletal hand bursts through the rotted pine slabs, reaching feebly towards what it’d just been poked with. Tsukishima jabs at it once more, stabbing through the wrist of the arm; it retreats with an angry sound.

He pants, laying back.

The dark figures are still moving around above his hiding place; they can smell him, for sure, but getting to him is the hard part. It’s like trying to open a can without a can opener, he thinks. It won’t be easy. But, they’ve been at it- they’ve been at it for a while, he assumes, if the light outdoors is natural. By his count, a night and a morning has passed since he’s fallen here. He’s been awake for well over thirty-six hours, though, and it’s starting to get to him. His sense of time is muddy.

He’s _starving_ , too- when was the last time he’d had something decent to eat? He can’t remember. It must’ve been back at camp, with Kenma and Kuroo. Where they had what they needed- food, a questionable amount of water, and most importantly, ammo. _Keep moving. Keep going. Don’t get bitten. Don’t get caught._ That’s the rule. Don’t let them hurt you, or you’re as good as dead.

At least, that was the rule; the rule they lived, ate, and slept by. The rule that dictated their awful lives- until everything went oh so terribly _wrong_.  
The taste of blood in his mouth; the screaming. Oh, he doesn’t want to remember it- why didn’t he die then? What willpower did he have to keep going?  
He didn’t need them, anyways.

He wasn't really living for anything, anyways- everyone he fought for is dead. He's never fought for himself. That didn't matter.

_He's dead. They're all dead, and you should be, too._

Kei snaps awake, out of a fevered, sleepy trance to a loud crack.

The first questions he asks himself are _how long was I asleep? What happened?_ The second is somewhat along the lines of _What’s happening? What the hell was that?_

It’s pitch black out.

It was light the last time he checked, wasn’t it? And where was his weapon? He flails uselessly in the dark, trying to search for the familiar oak handle.

Instead, his hand rests on something that is decidedly and distinctly _human_.

Tsukishima leaps backwards, hissing out in terror; when he looks up, he can see the hole that was once previously covered by boards is open to the moonlit, cloudy air. There’s a thin, evil-smelling breeze wafting in through the gaping spot, and when he looks down, he can see the pale white skin of his own fingers.

Kei nearly loses train of thought about what he’d touched behind him; however, when he leans back and touches it once more, he rears back with another sharp gasp. He shoves his fingers into his pocket, pulling out his crushed box of matches; he strikes one against the cardboard, squinting into the darkness.

What was decidedly a person to him, is also decidedly breathing; he pokes at it with his foot, nudging an arm away from a bruised, gas-mask covered face.

“H-hey-”

He kicks at the person again, trying to wake them up. If he stays here too much longer- out in the open- something’s going to get to them. An ally is an ally- whether he has to make them by waking them up and threatening them if they don’t comply or not. At the worst, he’ll steal the man’s ammunition. He’s bound to have some, isn’t he? He hasn’t died yet-  
The figure’s hair is a deep, olive-brown color, caked thoroughly with dirt and blood; there’s numerous scars up the visible parts of their arms. Tsukishima cautiously kicks their hand to the side again, attempting in some way shape or form to rouse him.

“Hey, idiot-”

The person rears up with a gasp, unsheathing a knife with his other hand; he jumps back, slamming against the dirt wall. Dust scatters in the air, and Tsukishima closes his hands around the figure’s throat before he scream- though honestly, could anyone be that _idiotic_?

“Shut up, _shut up_!” he hisses, glancing back at the hole. Moonlight is still the only thing that he can see; the chirping of crickets is overwhelming. There’s no undead groaning, however, which means someone must have cleared them out- or he’d certainly be dead by now. Falling asleep in the midst of a damn _battlefield_ \- who was he? He can at least say, for sure, that he’s smarter than whatever idiot just fell down into the rubble-

There’s a thin whiff of air from the gas mask as Tsukishima relaxes his hands; the figure makes a pensive, croaking noise of question. The other person’s hands are still braced up against the wall from when Tsukishima had shoved them before.

“ _Kei_?” The voice isn’t familiar; though, that could be due to the thick respirator muffling his speech. He- it’s a he. Tsukishima’s mostly sure of that. Doesn’t matter, anyway. He’s completely unsettled by the fact that someone armed- and evidently, completely _stupid_ \- has just _happened_ to stumble across his unsavory hiding place.

“Who the hell are you?” He hears a breath being taken in, reaching around his belt to rest one hand on the makeshift shank at his side. “Who tracked me? What affiliation are you from? The Eagles? Ferraille?”  
“Tsukishima, no- wait-”  
“Who’s with you? Who did you bring?” He takes the jagged piece of metal out with a rough noise, pressing it against the thigh of his prisoner. The gas mask figure lets out a sharp squeak.  
“No! No, I tracked you! I didn’t- It’s me, I found you-”  
“Who did you bring?” he repeats, pressing harder.  
“They don’t know you’re here! Only I know- It’s- Kei!” The name turns into a sharp squeal as Tsukishima draws blood.  
“I covered my tracks,” he hisses. “No one can find me. No one can find me anymore. Who are you?”  
“Tsukki,” the name gasps, and Kei stops as quickly as he’d started trying to force information out of the man.

There’s something familiar, now.  
  
He sits back on his heels, backing up until he’s at the other end of the pit; the man across from him sends up a scattering of dust as he struggles to remove the gas mask. Tsukishima’s hand is still ready at his weapon, though little use it would do him- he can see the interesting arrangement of weapons on the opposing figure’s belt, including an array of pistols, as well as a beaten-up rifle slung across his back.

The man tosses the gas mask to the right with a harsh clatter, and Tsukishima strikes up another match.  
The face he glimpses is marked by burn scars, leaving the left eye swollen shut; beyond the scar is a scattering of constellation freckles, nose running and tears streaming from his good eye. His hair is a complete mess, tangled around his face- messier that Kei’s seen it before.

_You’re dead. I saw you die. You burned to death with the rest of them._

From across the small pit, crying; in the flesh, alive and breathing, is a man he’s sure died in the explosion two weeks ago. There’s no doubt about it.

Sitting across from him is Yamaguchi Tadashi.


	2. tetsurou kuroo's ramshackle lot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kunimi Akira lives in a gang of sadists. 
> 
> At least, that's to say he doesn't really like dealing with them. They keep him alive, yeah; but what's a life to a post-apocalyptic world?

**_5 months prior to the incident_ **

 

_“K-Kindaichi-”_

_He can’t bring himself to hope when the taller boy laughs nervously, scratching the back of his head._

_What reason does he have to_ hope _? His best friend is dying- his best friend is good as a zombie, and it's all Akira's fault._

_“It’s- it’s small. Maybe nothing’ll happen. I’ll be fine, yeah?”_

_No. No, it won’t be fine. The glassy look is already in his eyes; a fevered, red haze. He looks paler than death itself._  
_The bite isn’t fairly big; that’s the truth. It’s a row of shallow chunks taken out of the side of his chest, right below his arm. In a spot there was no hope for amputating; already starting to blacken and decay._

Why him _?_

 _Kindaichi is shirtless on the ground, sweating profusely; his hair is down, sticking against his face and neck. There’s an insane, small grin plastered on his face; the smile of a man who knows his world’s gone to shit. Akira knows he should help. He knows he should be there for him._  
_But against that, he doesn’t want to any get closer. He wants to keep his distance- no matter how terrified Yuutarou is. He wants to stay away. He wants to run and hide. He doesn’t want to comfort his friend. He just wants to save his own damn skin, more than anything. Why?_

_“No. No, Yuutarou.” His voice is low and nearly inaudible, and Kindaichi gives the tiniest croak of a hysterical sob. “It’s- it’s not going to be okay. A bite’s a bite. You know th- you know that as well as I do.” He doesn’t feel helpful when he says the words. He hasn’t made anything better._

_There’s a peculiar scent of dead flesh around them; stronger near Yuu than anything. Akira wants to bolt- he wants to run. He wants to do what Kuroo told him to do and get out of there._

_Say goodbye, Akira.  
_

_He needs to. He knows he should. He knows he should be there, but Yuutarou’s already gone. There’s already a twitch in his lip; the glassy look in his pupils. The manic smile has vanished.  
_

_The taller boy starts to move, and Kunimi’s hand snaps towards the pistol in his belt; Kindaichi lets out a small gasp, falling back against the ground.  
_

_“You’re-” he swallows hard. “You’re going to kill me, Akira.”_

_It’s more of a statement then a question. Akira should say something, but what? ‘Yes?’ ‘No?’ There isn’t a right way to tell him. “Akira-” the man lets out a sob. “Akira, it- it’s really starting to hurt.” There are tears streaming down his face. Kindaichi’s panicking. He stumbles to his feet, reaching one of his hands out._

_What comes next is a lunge forwards; perhaps a stumble, perhaps a trip. Maybe he was going for an attack. Akira wouldn’t have been able to know._

“Hey. Akira.”

There’s someone tapping his shoulder; he turns his head to the left, meeting hazel eyes watery from smoke. “You alright?”

He doesn’t really feel the tears dripping down his chin- they’re involuntary. He swallows quietly.

It’s a habit between Daishou and him- to ask if the other’s okay, though they both know with certainty that they’re not. They’re the most unstable of the lot. He knows that. Kuroo knows that. Out of all people, even _Yamaguchi_ knows. At every opportunity, Suguru and Akira are huddled together like rabbits in a warren. At the sound of a bullet, they’re frozen in fear. Two mice living in a world of lions.  
Hell knows where Suguru came from- he won’t talk about it. But if anyone asks him, there’s a glassy, fevered look that appears in his eyes, and they’ll wish they hadn’t.

“I’m fine.” A scripted answer, and a lie at that. _Thinking about how I’ll die. It’s one of few interesting things that’ll happen to me, anyways._

No- it’s more than that. It’s more, because it’s only been a week since he saw his own friend bitten and killed without a second thought. He could’ve saved him. He should’ve. They left the choice to him.

_Why me?_

In the silence, he leans his head against Suguru’s shoulder; the older boy makes no comment on it, exhaling softly.

_Say goodbye._

“Suguru.”

“Hm?”

He wipes the tears from his face, trying to focus on the fire. No other words are shared between them- it’s just the solidity of saying his name that helps Akira forget, if only a little.

_I never did tell him._

“Hey, Tsukishima. D’you think I could catch this knife by the blade?”  
“I think it’s a horribly stupid idea, if you’re asking.”  
“Not asking what you think about the idea… do you think I could catch it?”

Kunimi Akira lets the conversation slip into no more than dull background noise, staring unenthusiastically at the wavering orange flames.

 _Hm_.

It’s an uneventful night. There’s not much to think about besides the impending doom at hand. They’ll all die eventually. He’ll probably be first. Kuroo will throw him into the horde or something along those lines. Maybe kill him and use his body as bait.

He wipes the train of thought away like chalk on a slate.

To his right is Kozume Kenma, who’s trying fervently to create some projectile-type weapon. Haiba Lev is simply a shadow in the trees, waiting quietly on sentry duty; one of the gang’s three rifles is held loose in his arms. The two men conversing earlier- Tsukishima Kei and Kuroo Tetsurou- are still fervently arguing over something stupid. There’s a glint of tired mischievousness in the raven-haired boy’s eyes. He doesn’t know where Tadashi’s at for the life of him.

As for him, he’s sitting beside the fire- perhaps a little too close- picking at the frayed thumb of his striped gloves.

Crickets are always bad this time of year. It’s probably somewhere near the end of summer, he thinks. It’s frighteningly cold for that, though- who knew anymore? There wasn’t a particular reason to tell time- not that there ever had been- and seasons were only trivial if it meant snow. There’s no pattern to the weather anymore.

Tonight is a nice, balmy degree of _fucking freezing_ ; at least, that’s what Akira manages to gather from the way his ceramic cup filled with barely-drinkable water has frozen over into chips of ice on the top. There are clouds covering the sky entirely, save for a blurry, lit-up spot where the moon would be shining- oh, if only he could see the stars. Everything would be alright then. His breath comes out in a cloud of smoke as he sighs wistfully. A sky without smog, breathing in without burning his lungs… and drinkable water. Something he could have without worry of catching something bacterial and fucking _dying_ -

He’s snapped from his thoughts by a worryingly loud gunshot, followed by the stark silence of everyone sitting around the fire.

The singular sounds are the ringing of his own ears, the drowning chirp of crickets, and the crackle of a wet-logged fire.

“Straggler.”

Lev’s words finally whisper down from the top of the tree he’s posted at. There’s a collective release of held breath. “No more. Just the one.”  
“Might be more that you can’t see.” Kenma’s words are meant to jar them back to reality- they still aren’t safe. They _definitely_ aren’t safe- if a staggering, weak zombie is enough to find them, there’s no telling what’s coming. “They get crafty in the cold.”

There’s an unsettling silence among the gang of men.

“We’ll move camp in the morning, put two sentries up tonight. We’ll be fine.” Kuroo stands, voice ringing out uncomfortably in the quiet; it’s a hissed, mumbled affirmation, but still louder than the popping of the rubbish campfire. There’s a certainty in the leader’s voice that doesn’t match the disbelief in his eyes.

“Who else’ll watch?” Daishou is the member daring enough to ask the question they’re all dreading.

“I will,” Tetsurou says softly, lifting the second rifle from its pile. The remaining gun left is Kenma’s; the rifle with a scope, though little to none of them actually know how to use it besides Kozume and Kuroo, and they don’t care to learn. “You’re okay until morning, Lev?”

A quiet rustle follows, with a curt, barely audible “Yeah.”

Everyone remains soundless; Kuroo climbs the adjacent tree, waiting for his eyes to adjust. There’s no more talking; no more joking. The demeanor of the entire camp had changed with a single shot.

That was just how it was.

“Put the fire out,” Kenma mumbles, brushing off the current project; he shoves it underneath a dusty old tarp, cracking his knuckles ruefully. _No meaningful work tonight. We’re just stalling,_ Akira thinks to himself. _Stalling for what? another part asks. There’s only so much running to be done._

Tsukishima empties the recently-filled, half-frozen rain barrel over the dying flames- there’s a hiss, followed by an abundance of steam. In the dark, there’s a scuffing noise of someone kicking soil and damp peat over the ashes.

Kunimi turns his back to the remnants of their heat, scooting downwards to rest his head against the moldy log he’d been sitting upon; it’s not much, but in any case, maybe he’ll be able to go a bit longer without such a persistent ache in his neck. The person to settle down next to him is Suguru, like always; it’s a more recent habit, though. He doesn’t care. A little more warmth- a little less personal space. If it could help him survive, he’d let it happen.

The activity of the camp has dimmed to no more than the rough noise of breathing; no one is asleep yet, that he can tell. Everyone’s on edge. Suguru’s body is rigid next to him; icy-cold, and if he hadn’t been breathing so shakily, anyone could’ve thought he’d died. Akira squeezes one of the older boy’s frigid hands lightly, holding onto his fingers;

 _Why_ am _I still here?_

It’s little more than a passive thought that slips by, and he doesn’t pay it much mind. He’s always thought like that. It doesn’t bother him anymore. Dreaming to him is an endless loop of derogatory comments towards himself; analytical remarks about others. A background fuzz.

There’s a crack from above; likely to have been a bird, or perhaps Lev shifting uneasily. Maybe Kuroo knocked loose a bit of bark. It’s nothing of his concern, anyways.

 _I killed Yuutarou._  
I can’t help them.  
What do I live for?  
What’s the matter with me?  
I’m going to die soon.  
Help me.  
I want it to be over.

Kunimi Akira gets no sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will be told from the view of different characters. Leave whoever you'd like to see in the comments... next chapter is Shirabu, and a look at a new gang!


	3. kenjirou shirabu's no good at most things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There isn't a lot that Shirabu can do. 
> 
> He can't hold a gun, for example. He can't use a knife, and he can't fire a rifle. He's scared of virtually everything, and he's an asshole.
> 
> So why the hell is he still alive?

There are three gangs who have made themselves known in the long span of time that the apocalypse has taken up.

  
There’s the Hunters- a gang full of masked men who live in the city two over. He only knows their leader- a burly man named Bokuto Koutarou. The rest of them keep their faces covered; they’re easily the strongest out of the three, but they’re non-aggressive. The only big group anyone has a hope of forming an alliance with. There has to be a mastermind, he thinks- because he’s met Bokuto, and there’s no way a gang would have stayed alive that long with _him_ making the plans.

  
Two: Ferraille. A group of primitive, savage idiots with no need for morals or dignity. Sugawara Koushi’s been leader for years- they’ve taken residence in an old campground, which wasn’t the _safest,_ mind you- though somehow, they’d managed to pull through. Maybe that was through sheer brutality- or a span of forces all across, reaching through the forests and into a neighborhood due east. Any prisoner there wouldn’t come back alive. Ferraille, he knows, mainly gains memory by a promise of freedom and miles and miles of territory- though, to be honest, he wasn’t sure how anyone could fall for that anymore. Nowadays, it was simply the aspect of living among such large ranks. The more there were, the less your probability was to die.

  
Then, there’s the Eagles.

  
The Eagle’s Nest is not a gang to get mixed up with.

  
They’re ruthless- vast in numbers. They have alliances with small groups all over the area. The weak are weeded out; the strong are left to prosper. There’s no way to walk into their territory and survive- unless, by chance, you’ve got the power of a deity or God himself on your side.

  
Even then, it wouldn’t do you much good; for once an Eagle’s captured its prey, it rips it to pieces.

  
They’re the jaws of a beartrap; the teeth of a hungry alligator. The snare that strangles the rabbit in silence. An unstoppable, painfully _obvious_ killing machine. A residency of men holed up in a manufacturing warehouse and storage units, just outside of the largest city for hundreds of miles. Granted, they never venture in too far, unless they feel like it- the population within the megapolis is little more than hundreds of zombies and a few Scrappers brave enough to skirt the outsides of their reaches.

  
Everyone knows who they are.

  
In the Eagle’s nest, there is one rule upkept by everyone- one that no other gang upholds:

  
The weak will die.

  
Perhaps the success of the Eagles has to do with the monsters that the gang houses; Shirabu Kenjirou has compiled a list. Mostly for himself, though if he had to be honest- a list to intimidate and show off just how much he actually knows. A list requested by no one but himself- a list of each strength and weakness, each flaw and each perfection. Every person that would be a danger, would they happen to defect. A list of ways to take rogue Eagles down once and for all. There are countless lists, too- more than he can keep track of, but each just as vitally important as the other. Mutineers. Scrappers brave enough to litter around the edges of their territory. An up-to-date list of Ferraille leaders and prisoners. He can nearly recite them by memory- methodically going over them night after night after night.

  
Document six of six.

  
_Firstly: Wakatoshi Ushijima himself. A mutant of a man; missing two fingers on his right hand from an unfortunate run-in with an enclosed zombie. Left knee and below is missing from a vehicular accident. Doesn’t matter- even with the prominent, signature limp, he’s a beast. Recovers from anything thrown at him- can handle a gun just fine. Can’t communicate with others well._

_  
Secondly- the sharpshooter Tendou Satori. An ace at guessing, sure- good in a crisis for speed. Planning ahead is not his thing. He’s built long- thin, and seemingly fragile. Easy to put in and be underestimated- can deliver blows from the back. Has the mind to fix things on the go- any explicitly dangerous mission is incomplete without him. Good with electricity and methods of torture._

  
The led of his pencil snaps; he sharpens it irritably, trying to work by lantern light.

  
_Third: Hanamaki Takahiro. Resting bitch face. Can count on him not letting anything slip- or maybe that’s what he lets people believe. Built like the rest of them. Nothing particularly notable about him, but he’s good for extra power. Has a habit of cracking jokes where there don’t need to be. Expendable._

  
He scratches at his head, reading over his writing after he’s done whispering it allowed to himself.

  
There’s nothing to be gained by anyone but him from the list- but isn’t it better that way? He should be able to have his own secrets- shouldn’t he? He swipes a lock of curly copper hair away from his field of vision.

  
_Fourth. Fourth is Iwaizumi Hajime, probably. He’s a brute, but he’s dumb. He can handle the heavy machinery, but there’s no use in asking him to… think. A tank, of sorts. Keeps a level head in crises… isn’t expendable for the mental well-being of the group. Substantially better at lifting spirits than Hanamaki, to say the least. In any matter, there’s only use for him in missions when the circumstance presents something in mass numbers. Not vastly important. Can snipe- that’s what he says, anyways. Haven’t seen him use that skill yet._

_  
Fifth… Oikawa Tooru. Fucking… oh, this_ bullshit _-_

  
“Kenjirou!”

  
The voice is right next to his ear, shoved into a whisper; though ‘whisper’ might have been stretching it. He reels backwards, clutching his pencil to his chest; his chair hits the ground with him in it, and he lets loose a particularly _girly_ scream.

  
_Ooh_ , shit.

  
Tendou Satori lets out a high-pitched peal of laughter; Shirabu scrambles away from his upturned chair, gathering papers upturned by the disruption all while glaring daggers at his intruder.

  
“What’re you working on?”

  
Satori snatches one of the papers from his grasp; it’s one he knows well. It’s his list of defectors- reasons and deaths- but it doesn’t mean a great deal to him. In fact, he’d prefer to never see it again. But Tendou touching his papers is another thing- a thing he doesn’t like.

  
“Shut up,” he settles for snapping, pulling the sheet and shoving it into the stack he’s carrying; he pushes them down to his desk with a woosh of air, standing with an air of hostility about him.

  
“Ooh. Frightening, Kenji.”

  
The attempt to kick Tendou in the shin might’ve gone a bit better had he not missed entirely, landing flat on his back with a gasp as the air is lost from his lungs. He sputters once, coughing painfully, but he shoves away the pale hand that tries to help him.

  
“ _Fuck off_ ,” he wheezes, tears springing to his eyes; he folds his legs, gritting his teeth before looking pointedly away from Satori. He doesn’t want to see the second-in-command right now- he wants to get back to his work, then curl up on his cardboard slab of a cot and _sleep_ -

  
“You woke up in a pissy mood.” Kenjirou hauls himself up and braces his hands on his desk, coughing chestily.

“I’ve been awake for _twenty-six hours_.”

  
“Sorry. I forgot you’re a naturally pissy person.” The younger boy swallows back a displeased growl, choosing to rub ruefully at his chest instead.

  
“What do you _want_ , Satori?”

“Status reports.”  
“Status reports, my _ass_.”

  
Satori puts one hand on his hip and the other behind his head, grinning sheepishly. “Caught me there,” he chuckles, knowing full well that Shirabu wouldn’t try to hit him again. “We found a Scrapper. Thought you might be able to crack him.”

“Did Ushijima-san send you?”

“Oh, so _he’s_ ‘san’? I feel offended.”

“I want to know who sent you,” he deadpans, ignoring the jab.

  
Satori pauses, scratching at his head.

  
“Would you believe me if I said no one?”

“No.”

  
Tendou only laughs at that, idly bouncing on his heels. “They’re getting nowhere with him. Wakatoshi didn’t want to see this one.” _Must be one we’ve seen before. Ushijima holds grudges? Unlikely_. The ginger seems to read his thoughts. “We think it’s Issei, but whoever it is, he’s beat up pretty bad. Managed to create quite a bit of mayhem when we discovered him. Looks like he got hit by a fucking bus.”

  
_Defector_.

  
Kenjirou runs through his mind, trying to recall every piece of information he knows about the guy- Matsukawa Issei. Dark hair, brown eyes. Tall. Tall as Wakatoshi. Calculating. A head for explosives. Knows the system… close to Takahiro. Too quiet for his own good…

  
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Satori chides, clapping him on the back. “There’s a good chance it isn’t him. I thought you’d know as well as ‘Toshi, whoever it is.”

“If you can’t tell, there’s no way I’ll be able to,” Kenjirou responds, searching through his stack of papers. _Matsukawa Issei. Matsukawa… Issei. Here…_

  
“Give it a shot, at least.” Satori sounds surprisingly sincere, which is unsettling.

“Who’s in charge of the interrogation?” he shoots back.

  
A pause.

  
“Tooru.”

  
“No.”

  
He can see Satori’s face fall even before he utters the word- he shifts through his notes on Matsukawa, trying to pick anything useful out of them. _Six-two; a hundred and sixty pounds, last time he was measured. Chances are, if he’s a Scrapper, weight’ll have decreased… didn’t think he’d stoop as low as that. Might have moved to Ferraille._

  
“Come on. We both mutually agree, Tooru’s the worst-” Tendou grows quiet for a short moment, attempting to think of something to say. Shirabu beats him to the response.

  
“If Tooru’s in charge of it, that likely means Ushijima-san didn’t choose to stay out of it. He’s been scammed out of it.”

  
“...It seems stupid on Tooru’s behalf, but that sounds right…”

“Which is, most definitely, the reason I haven’t been called to interrogate. I don’t want anything to do with that power-shuffling, whiny maniac.”

  
There’s an awkward silence in the room.

  
“Give me what you know already. I want it back when Tooru’s done with whoever the hell it is.”

  
He shoves a slip of paper into Tendou’s hands, along with a half-empty ballpoint pen.

  
“Does that mean you’ll do it?”

“Depends on if he’s still alive by tonight.”

“I’ll make sure. Deal?”

“Fine. Only because you’re a nagging fucker.” Satori rolls his eyes, moving towards the quarters’ exit. He turns back, though, half-lidded gaze meeting Shirabu’s dark one.

  
“Terushima wants any of the weapon plans you have. Says he’s got free time. That’s actually the _real_ news.”

  
“Fuck off,” comes the response, and Tendou’s red-haired head disappears, much to Kenjirou’s sour delight. _Tell me the official news last. You wouldn’t have if I’d declined your request, I bet. Fuck you._

  
Shirabu Kenjirou doesn’t particularly _like_ anyone he works with.

  
He doesn’t get along with Tendou- he doesn’t get along with Hanamaki or Iwaizumi, and he _definitely_ doesn’t get along with Oikawa.

  
Kenjirou picks his chair up from the floor, wincing slightly at the pain in his neck; he rubs at his shoulder ruefully, shoving his papers in a black binder.

  
He does get along surprisingly well with Ushijima Wakatoshi.

  
Shirabu is the Eagle’s Codebreaker- creating new methods and techniques and contraptions to keep him alive. He knows how everything works; he knows how to disassemble anything and put it back together again, with varying trial and error.

  
Perhaps the reason he gets along so well with Wakatoshi is the fact he’s completely unreliable to do anything else.

  
He can’t hold a rifle right- the first time he tried, Kawanishi had nearly cried from laughing and told him he looked like he’d been trying to shoot his own foot. He can’t use a knife- the last time Satori handed one to him, he grabbed it by the blade. He can’t run without tripping over his own feet; he can’t fire a pistol, because every time he has, it’s made his ears ring and sent him falling back with a white haze in his vision. He can’t drive a car, despite the fact the Eagles are in possession of about seven; including two jeeps, a sedan, three motorcycles, and a bus. The sizable dent in their nicest car is as a result of Shirabu’s driving practice, to which he recalls Hanamaki swore he was trying to kill someone.

  
Shirabu Kenjirou is about the least useful person to have around during the apocalypse.

  
He can’t handle himself in the field- he can’t shoot a gun for the life of him. He never gets more than four hours of sleep a night; and he’s scared more easily than he’d like to admit. He screams like a little girl, and he’s afraid of spiders and mice.

  
Kenjirou completely and utterly believes he’d be dead if he hadn’t saved Wakatoshi’s life; stopping the infection, the bleeding, setting the bone. Saving the only thing close to a ‘leader’ that they had, at the time.

  
That’s why he knows he’s the smartest of their group; that’s how he _knows_ that they won’t survive without him. _He_ knows all the medical tech and antidotes and symptoms. _He_ knows how every gun is put together, and how each vehicle’s engine works.

  
The problem is actually _using_ them, unfortunately.

  
He’s been with the Eagles for two years: long enough to see members defect, and long enough to see members join. Long enough to see mutineers, long enough to see _Oikawa Tooru_ rise to power.

  
And, apparently, just long enough to hate almost everyone.

  
The enthused grin of Terushima almost sends a spike of nausea up his throat; the older boy rests his hands on his hips, yelling an all-too-loud “ _Hey_!” to Kenjirou, who was, mind you, only about six steps away-

  
He’s broken from his poisonous train of thought by the arm slung around his shoulder, to which he grumpily shoves off; Terushima _laughs_ , the _madman_ , and Shirabu takes a safe four or five steps back.

  
The blonde claps his hands together, and Shirabu jumps involuntarily. “So? Progress reports? Ushiwaka says I’m s’posed to collect them. Nothing on rushing you, personally.”

  
Kenjirou glowers inwardly.

  
“I haven’t worked on any of the weapons systems. Wakatoshi should know that.”

“Oh? I haven’t seen Wakatoshi today.”

  
_Oh, fuck me. Fuck me sideways. Let it be a threeway with goddamn Tendou, for God’s sake._

  
“Then who the hell initiated the progress report?”

“Oikawa-san did. Who told you it was Wakatoshi?”

“Oikawa hasn’t ever initiated a progress report before.”

“He did today.”

  
Ooh, he really wants to _punch_ somebody right now, and the most likely candidate was Terushima, standing in front of him in the _perfect fucking spot._

  
Though, considering his lack of balance, that probably wasn’t the best idea.

  
Also, Yuuji was holding a gun, so that wasn’t putting favor in for him, either.

  
Instead, he settles for balling his fists at his sides, biting his bottom lip until he’s sure he tastes blood.

  
“Where’s Ushijima-san?” he hisses.

“How should I know?” Terushima chirps, and Shirabu stiffens when he throws an arm back around his shoulder. No person should be _that_ touchy- “But since you’re here, you can help me test some of them. Make sure they work.”

“Who told you I’d-”  
“Nah, just joking. If I let you hold a gun, I might as well hang myself…” The comment almost stings, but Shirabu keeps his level-headed facade- as much as he has left of it, anyways. “Or Wakatoshi would hang me, anyways.”

  
_You’re his pet_ , goes the unspoken words.

  
But doesn’t _everyone_  think that these days?

  
If anyone touches him, they’re as good as dead. He’s the most secure individual in the entire Eagles’ Compound.

  
And, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he’s completely and utterly Ushijima’s pet.

  
Shirabu doesn’t have the heart to pretend he’s listening when Yuuji goes off on a tangent- the older boy must’ve noticed, anyways, because when Kenjirou decides to wander off mid-conversation, he doesn’t seem too disheveled by it, instead going to bother the other weapons analyst, Onagawa (who, coincidentally, Shirabu didn’t like much, either- he was always sleeping where he shouldn’t be, and it’d be better for him if he was dead, probably.)

  
_I’m going to castrate Tendou next time I see him_ , he thinks venomously, stalking off with his hands in his pockets- the midday winter air is too cold for him, and his pale face is singed with red from the chilly breeze. He’s always been sensitive like that- or at least, that’s what he can tell.

  
His footsteps echo uncomfortably against the concrete ground.

  
He can hear loud talking- yelling, almost- in what sounds like Tooru’s voice. He’s not a stranger to that noise, though he wishes he was- it’s grating enough on its own to hear Oikawa talk, but to hear him argue with someone is another monster.

  
In fact, he’s so preoccupied with trying to shut everything out, he runs straight into the back of the man he’s currently looking for.

  
Shirabu Kenjirou lets out a yell, and falls backwards, thudding to the ground.

  
Tendou Satori barely chokes back his laughter; Ushijima Wakatoshi turns around passively, olive eyes meeting amber.

  
It finally occurs to Shirabu that _yes_ , he did finally run into Ushijima Wakatoshi, and he should probably get up from the ground instead of flopping about like a fish out of water.

  
“Ushijima-san-” he wheezes once he’s dusted himself off, performing a miniscule bow in respect. Tendou is smiling at him provocatively, but he can’t make a show of it- no, he can’t embarrass himself. Not right now.

  
“...Hm.”

  
The acknowledgement is enough to move him from his respectful position, and he clutches a hand to his chest, drawing in a ragged breath.

  
“The-” he says, lungs seeming a bit too shallow. “The reports- you ordered them?”

“Man. Take a breather, Kenjirou.”

“Sh-shut up.” Though, contrary to his hostile words, he coughs roughly, bending over and placing his hands on his knees.

  
Ushijima, thankfully, ignores it, raising his eyebrows in a slight expression that Satori and Kenjirou can only define as confusion (if Wakatoshi even had such an emotion).

  
“Oh.” He finally _does_ speak, but it’s only in a slight noise as he recalls.

  
“Huh?” Shirabu mumbles back, trying to straighten himself up.

“Oikawa ordered those. I presume they weren’t ready.”

  
“N-no- fucking _Oikawa_ -”

“Kenjirou.”

  
He glares up at Ushijima, quickly wiping the look off his face. Satori looks smug, but he’s pleasantly silent.

  
“And… the interrogation?”

“What interrogation?” Wakatoshi’s response sends a spike of alarm through Shirabu.

  
“Tendou, if you _lied_ -”

  
“I didn’t lie!” the redhead fires back, clutching onto Ushijima’s overcoat sleeve. “The interrogation- with Tooru. Yeah?”

  
A pause.

  
“I was never told.”

  
_Motherfucker_.

  
“ _Fuck_ Tooru- you know-”

There’s another reprimand from Ushijima, and Shirabu’s crappy mood sours. _Oikawa, Oikawa, Oikawa. Why d’you need to protect him? He’s nothing, nothing-_

  
“You’re turning purple, Shirabu.”

“I am _not_.”

  
“Hey, if you don’t believe me, go talk to whoever it is yourself. Oikawa left him in the storage garage,” Tendou snips, hanging off of Wakatoshi like a faithful dog, or a _wife_ or something-

  
“Which storage garage, you _idiot_?”

  
“Sixty-two. It’s down the furthest right aisle.”

“How d’you-”

“I _spied_ ,” Satori interrupts, and he seems giddily proud, even with Ushijima’s disapproving gaze on him.

  
“Then I’ll see to it,” Ushijima mutters, shoving his free hand in his pocket; Satori begins to drag him off, like a pet pulling at its leash. It’s completely strange. No two people _that_ different should be able to get along…

  
Still, he follows behind them, lagging back a little bit. Wakatoshi is talking softly to Satori, and as much as he wants to hear, he doesn’t even think of trying- it was rude, anyways, and to Ushijima, at least, Shirabu Kenjirou wasn’t _rude_.

  
The space of the garages beside the trio creates a strange, reverberating noise; Shirabu, in all of his pissiness, attempts to block it out once more. This was preferable to Oikawa’s whining, at least- wasn’t it?

  
“Here.”

  
Ushijima stoops to throw one of the shed doors open with a clatter, and there’s a rough scream.

  
Everything is far too shadowy on the inside to see- in the dying light of the day, no less. Shirabu can spot two pairs of eyes, one near the opening and one near the back left corner.

  
“Out.”

  
Hanamaki Takahiro stands up from a strangely alert position, hand at his gun- but as his eyes adjust to the light, he lets out a soft ‘ _oh_ ’, and pushes by the three men.

  
Wakatoshi Ushijima, Kenjirou has learned, is a man of very little words- and it’s those little words you’d better listen to.

  
Takahiro scrambles away from the shadows, and Shirabu disdainfully glares at him- was that a glint of fear? He can’t tell, but the fact alone that he was waiting in there was suspicious enough.

  
“Check him later,” Wakatoshi mumbles, seeming to have caught the suspicious wind flying by.

  
Tendou takes a flashlight from his belt and flicks it on- the bloodied figure in the corner squints against the light, mouth bound and tears streaming down their face. There’s a tray of rusted needles and knives and screws in the corner- Oikawa’s favorite fucking toys- and Shirabu glares at them pointedly when he steps into the white light. Ushijima stays near the entrance, watching him carefully.

  
There’s a muffled shriek as Shirabu pulls a pair of scissors from the container, and he kneels next to the captive without a word.

  
The prisoner screams when Kenjirou fits the scissors against the binding in his mouth- he makes no move to be light about it, shredding the thick material and yanking it out from the man’s mouth. Blood’s caked around the cloth where it’s touched his cheeks, and his hair is matted with sanguine; one of his eyes is swollen and surrounded by a dark black bruise. His nose is crooked, but Shirabu can’t tell if it was broken before, despite the blood dripping freely over his cracked lips. His shirt hangs limp around his shoulders, hands bound by rope. There’s a smattering of freckles beneath the red.

  
There are three words screamed in a broken, hoarse voice when Shirabu takes his hand away, spitting blood from his lips.

  
“ _It’s not me_!”

  
And it’s with those three words, that Shirabu Kenjirou knows the answer- that Shirabu Kenjirou knows _someone’s_ been lying.

  
“This isn’t Matsukawa Issei.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have two oneshots in the making: one is GoShiraSemi, and the other is a platonic rarepair! I also have every chapter mapped out in Undead, so that should push things along. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. a serpent leaves no footprints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can't find Tadashi.
> 
> Tadashi's missing, and that is very much not okay.

Suguru knows two things.

  
One: Yamaguchi Tadashi is nowhere to be seen, and he hasn’t been around for the last thirteen hours.

  
Two: other than Tsukishima Kei beside him and (against his will, supposedly) Kunimi Akira trudging along a few yards away, no one else has bothered to give a damn about it.

  
Tadashi is missing, and no one fucking cares.

  
“You’re sure he wouldn’t…”

“I _know_ he wouldn’t. I know him… he wouldn’t. Not if…”

  
Suguru isn’t particularly listening anymore. Every time he even so much as _thinks_ of the word ‘defecting’, Kei’s full of some incoherent, half-assed excuse. Tadashi _wouldn’t_ defect. He _couldn’t_.

  
So, that wasn’t much use for explaining the scuffle of footprints, blood, and broken tree branches they’re wandering about at the moment.

  
It also does not help one bit for figuring out where the hell Tadashi actually _is_.

  
Kei is dangerously close to tears- at least, that’s what Daishou can tell from the redness around his eyes and the way he bites his lip so roughly. Tadashi means something to him- he _means_ something to this gruff asshole of a man. It almost surprises Suguru, but he doesn’t dare make fun of it. Not now.

  
The only reason they have even a _minute_ of time to look for Yamaguchi is Kuroo’s predicament- the predicament to leave him behind and risk losing members, or stay back for him and lose members. It’s a lose-lose. It’s fine by Daishou, for sure- Tetsurou can stall all he wants. He hasn’t got a care in the world for that aspect of leadership.

  
Currently, he cares about the fact that he’s going to have to tell Tsukishima that he has no idea where to start looking.

  
“His flashlight’s over here.”

  
Suguru can’t hear the soft words at first- but Kei does, spinning around and nearly falling flat on his face as he slips on a patch of churned-up mud.

  
Kunimi’s holding up a dirt-caked, broken mess of a flashlight that must’ve been Tadashi’s- what group would’ve been so careless as to leave behind something like that? Unless… no, it wouldn’t be easy to track from something like that. Not even for Kenma.

  
Tsukishima turns the metal over in his hands, jaw clenching.

  
“It might not be his,” Suguru tries, but Kei’s hands only tighten on the handle. “You have to consider that.”

  
“It’s his.”

  
Daishou fiddles with his own clammy fingers undecidedly.

  
He could step in- he could firmly insist that it _wasn’t_. But he can’t know for sure, and he can’t _lie_ , of all things-

  
He doesn’t know what to do.

  
Part of him wants to give up. The other part wants to try and find Tadashi until he can’t go on anymore.

  
“Tsukishima…”

  
It’s quiet, as much of a gentle nudge in the direction of following the group as he can muster. Tsukishima gives a choked noise, and Suguru tries to focus on the first thing in the corner of his vision. He doesn’t want to see Kei cry. That’s the last thing he needs in a life-or-death situation. Having a teary, six-two man at your throat for suggesting his… well, whatever Yamaguchi happened to be to him- suggesting that he might’ve left of his own accord.

  
Though, that nagging feeling the back of his brain tells him, _why the hell would there be so many footprints if he’d left on his own?_

  
_Someone’s taken him._

  
There’s a sudden rustle of footsteps in the undergrowth.

  
“Suguru.”

  
All three men in the clearing whirl around at the voice, and gold eyes seem to meet everyone’s equally.

  
Kenma.

 

Kenma is a glitch in the works.

  
“It’s not a mutiny, Kenma,” Suguru spits, knowing it’s the first question in the tip of his tongue (albeit gone about in a less _obvious_ sort of way) “Tadashi’s missing. We found his flashlight.”

  
“And you know it’s one of ours?”

“Well, no- but-”

  
Tsukishima almost looks as if he’s compelled to toss the broken piece of equipment into the hands of second-in-command; Kenma unscrews the bulb with a jarring _crack_ and examines the base where the batteries should’ve been.

  
“I suppose you’re right.”

  
Kenma tosses the flashlight back, stomping the broken lightbulb into the mud. Suguru catches it by the tips of his fingers. “There’s an arrow in the case of every flashlight we own. Same with the barrels of our guns and our other equipment.”

  
Oh.

  
Seems like a strange piece of info that he should know, but he supposes everyone thinks he’s smarter than he is, anyways.

  
“Is he anywhere around here?”

“Not that we can tell, but-”

“Then stop dawdling.”

  
Kei rears back, and slams his foot into the mud.

  
Suguru jumps back, because if someone’s getting shot by Kenma, he’s not being the buffer for the bullet.[h]

  
“Why don’t you _care_? We’re small enough as it is, and you’re just going to _leave_ him-!”

  
A shot hits the ground next to Tsukishima’s foot, spraying earth and mud across his legs. He lets out a shriek.

  
“You let your sentiments get in the way, and you’ll get left behind. Take your chances, Tsukishima Kei.”

“You have no _morals_ -”

  
“The next bullet goes between your eyes.”

  
One thing Daishou has learned about Kozume is that despite looking like a pushover half the time and a lost puppy the other, he doesn’t take shit from anyone.

  
“You’re- you’re just going to _leave_ him? _That’s_ what you’re telling me?”

  
There’s a peculiar glint in those golden eyes, and Suguru shivers.

  
“Riddle me this, Tsukishima: what’s more important? The life of someone you love, or the lives of countless, innocent people?” He shoves his gun back into his belt. “It’s outstandingly selfish to want one over others.”

  
“You’re lying. You’d choose Tetsurou over any one of us, and you know that-”

  
“I’m not alive because of Tetsurou.”

  
The deadpan accuracy he spits it with is unsettling. “There isn’t any reason to choose him if I could foster a higher relationship for safety. That’s how it is, sentiments or not.”

  
Would he choose someone over the wellbeing of his group, Suguru thinks?

  
He pales with guilt when he looks back at Akira’s sleepily startled face.

  
_I would._

  
Tsukishima makes a strange noise, and he watches Kenma’s eyes narrow at the sound. If Tsukishima doesn’t shut up- if Tsukishima doesn’t stop _bitching_ about this, he’s going to get _shot_ , and they can’t afford a death in their already pitiful group- why can’t he calm the hell _down_?

  
Then, just as abruptly, Kei slams his mouth shut, and Kenma raises an eyebrow as if to imply _right choice._

  
“Unless you’ve by chance managed to figure out a dealbreaker for where he’s gone, we need to get moving. There’s a horde in the town just on the edge.”

  
Tsukishima grits his teeth, and takes a step forward; another bullet melts into the mud.

  
“You’re wasting ammo.”

  
“I don’t waste anything. Not even the pitiful talents of someone like you.”

  
And as much as the insult must sting, Suguru knows it’s true. Because if Kenma hadn’t needed to use those bullets, he wouldn’t have. It was a staunch and terrifying intimidation factor, because Kenma had more power than even _Kuroo_ , and everyone…

  
Everyone knew that.

  
Kenma takes one step forward, and Kei slips on the mud, stumbling backward- the shorter boy grabs him by the shirt collar, yanking him forwards again.

  
“You don’t question my authority,” he hisses lowly. “You don’t intimidate me. You don’t threaten me.”

“F- _fine_ -”

“You follow. You fall in line, and you wait to be told to move.”

  
Tsukishima swallows roughly.

  
Then, he shoves Kei back to the dirt, letting him land with a splat in the churned-up earth.

  
“We leave in fifteen minutes. If you don’t follow us, we’ll shoot on sight the next time we see you.”

  
Tsukishima makes a choked, crying noise, and Kenma spins on his heel; Akira moves slowly, going to haul the taller boy up from underneath his arms.

  
“ _Stupid_ -” Kei spits, clenching his teeth to try and ward off a sob. It’s futile, though, and hot, angry tears spill down his face in tense silence. Suguru doesn’t know what to do- the younger boy seems in an angrier state than normal, and he doesn’t want to be caught in any crossfire. “It’s _stupid_ , he can’t- he _wouldn’t_.”

  
It’s Akira who finally puts a hand on his shoulder, and Daishou feels his alarm spike when the other boy jumps.

  
“The chances are this is recent, or the sleet would’ve washed it away. Wherever he’s gone, there’s that opportunity to find him when we get moving. He can’t have gone far.”

  
“He’s-” Kei cuts himself off with a rasping, inaudible mutter. Akira glances at Suguru with those watery, sorrow-filled eyes, rubbing an erratic pattern on the tall blonde’s back.

  
“Tadashi can fend for himself. If a scrapper took him, he’ll be back. If one of the Three has him, then we’re sure to find him, sooner or later.”

  
Daishou wishes he could say it with such confidence.

  
“We need to go,” he says instead, glancing upwards at the darkening sky.

  
_It’s going to snow._

  
He can feel it in his joints- his knees and ankles, to be precise. It’s a particularly _unpleasant_ feeling. Snow- it always snowed. It was like God’s way of telling them _everything will be alright in the end._ The animals never hibernated anymore- the trees never grew their leaves. The flowers never bloomed. Crops never yielded much more than a few sour husks of corn or a couple stalks of rotten beans.

  
The two follow him silently through the leaf mulch, footsteps crunching softly; Kei brushes a bit of caked, wet earth off of himself with a grumble.

  
There’s no acknowledgement when they step into the camp aside from a slight nod of the head by Morisuke; Kenma pulls his rifle up over his back, and Tsukishima narrowly catches the second rifle that Tetsurou tosses to him.

  
“They’re moving. We need to get out of here.”

  
And once Suguru’s grabbed his and Akira’s minimal items, slinging them over his shoulder, the entire, minuscule group stalks off into the eerily silent forest.

  
There’s no birds chirping; there’s no mice or squirrels scurrying through the undergrowth, or foxes slinking about. It’s so quiet that they can hear the creaking and groaning of the rally of undead only ten minutes behind them.

  
“You hear that?”

  
Lev’s voice breaks the silence thirty seconds later.

  
Tsukishima’s head snaps around, and Kuroo looks back at Haiba’s taller form.

  
“Besides feet and wind? I don’t think-”

  
There’s a crack, and a yell, and with the next step, Lev has disappeared into a cascade of earth underfoot.

  
There’s an unnatural groan, and Kuroo grabs his rifle; the rest of the group comes screeching to a halt, scrambling backwards from the head of the madness.

  
“Two of ‘em- a sinkhole-” there’s a round of gunshots, and though Suguru can’t see the brawl, he can see muddy brown spraying up from a divot in the ground.

  
“Fucking _shoot_ , Tetsurou-”

“I’ll hit him if I do! Hold the fucking things _still_ , Haiba-”

“I’m _tryi_ -mm _mph_ -”

  
Daishou keeps his feet glued to the ground.

  
In three resounding bullets, everything goes dead silent. Tetsurou keeps his gun on the hole.

  
“Did they get you?”

  
A pause.

  
“N-no.”

  
Kuroo pulls Lev up from the hole, and gives the writhing pieces of muscle and flesh in the pit another shot for good measure.

  
“Fucking… we gotta move. You can’t keep up, you die, you got that?” Kuroo shoves a distraught Lev forward, glancing back into the forest. “Move it. And watch your goddamn step. I’m not losing anyone.”

  
_Except for Tadashi._

  
There’s an ominous silence after that, save for the crunch of feet against dead leaves. A fearful, quiet traipse through a foreboding, gloomy spruce wood.

  
They aren’t dying today.

  
It’s an hour later when they finally come crashing to a halt in an old trailer park, completely decimated resource-wise; but it’s a suitable place to stay, granted that Kenma can pick the lock. The place is rife with the undead- they have to move fast, but no one has the stamina for it anymore.

  
The only option: hole up and wait it out.

  
They have enough food to last them all for a week- not that they’ll stay there that long. The mobile home they lock themselves up in is barely big enough for four, let alone seven fully-grown men. There’s an unearthly banging at the walls, hollow and desperate, and Suguru tries with all his might to keep the door shut until Kuroo can seal it shut.

  
“Hurry- _hurry_ , fuck-”

“I’m done, it’s done!”

  
The banging continues, a hollow beat against metal and wood.

  
“You sure they can’t-”

“If a home like this’s survived the apocalypse, I’m sure it’ll be just fuckin’ fine.”

  
Cockroaches are running rampant, there are rat and mouse skeletons everywhere, and black mold is creeping up the walls. Tearing the covers off of the bed, an entire dead _cat_ falls out, rotting with maggots and oozing all over.

  
“Aw, gross,” exclaims Yaku, using the blanket to fling it to the side. There’s all sorts of rodent shit on the ground, along with the stagnant, sharp smell of ammonia in the urine caking the molded carpet. No one dares sit down, because if you get sick, you’re as good as dead.

  
“We can’t stay here long, you know that?” Suguru snips, fishing a surgical mask out of his bag. Akira does the same only five minutes later, as do all the others in the group that possess them; he fastens it around his ears, tugging it up over his nose.

  
“I wouldn’t have stopped in the first place. I could’ve kept going.”

“Lucky for us poor little weaklings you _didn’t_ , huh?”

  
Daishou’s words are full of venom, but all of them are too tired to care about it or reprimand him.

  
“...Watch where you put your feet. I think there’s one trying to get in underneath us.”

“Sound like he’s making progress?”

“No. Think the mud and concrete is crushing him. The sound’s almost gone.”

“Maybe a rat.”

“...Nah. Too big to be a rat.”

Suguru grumbles inwardly to himself, climbing up on the creaky kitchen counter; he squashes a writhing roach with his foot, swiping the greasy carcass off to the floor.

  
Akira climbs next to him silently, legs dangling off the countertop. His face is uncomfortably pale, and he looks as if he’s ready to throw up- Daishou doesn’t blame him, digging his spare jacket out from the bag to drape over those trembling shoulders. “Hey,” he murmurs, pressing Akira’s face into his neck. He tunes out the sound of Kuroo shoving a discarded dresser in front of the door, pressing their heads together.

  
“I wish it would’ve been me.”

“Hm?”

  
Akira shifts, and Suguru feels hot tears on his shoulder.

  
“I wish- I wish it would’ve been _me_ that fell. I wish I wouldn’t have survived that shitstorm-”

“Don’t say that.”

“You saw the way he looked at me. How he glared when he said if you couldn’t keep up, you’d die. He was _hoping_.”

  
“...Every second it creeps closer, Akira. Every minute, I’m waiting. I’ll get us out. I’ll fix it.”

“I’m not going to survive it, Suguru.”

“I’ll make goddamn sure that you do.”

  
He presses a cold kiss to the top of Kunimi’s hair, hoping that in some way the contact might calm him down.

  
“...Get some sleep. At the rate they’re going, with the numbers, we need to be out here by tomorrow night…”

  
Suguru grips Akira tight, hands clenching around his shoulders. He clenches his teeth, glaring darkly at the congregation of men in the room.

  
_No one’s going to die. Not tonight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a Harry Potter AU in the works, as well as some Goshiki/Shirabu/Semi in the makings! Leave a comment or a kudos if you want, and thanks for being patient! Chapter 5 is halfway done, since I got a head start.
> 
> Thanks, guys!

**Author's Note:**

> Bear with me! I have the second chapter started, and it's going to be up and running soon.
> 
> Please, share your thoughts in the comments, and tell me if you'd like it to keep going!


End file.
